Hotspur & Steelsheen
by Medea Smyke
Summary: A holiday in Lossarnach takes a turn for the worst for Prince Thengel and his companions, who must rely upon the hospitality of the young mistress of Imloth Melui. But even under the blossoming trees of that fabled valley, life takes a turn from the idyllic. Where greedy relatives fail, Morwen and Thengel discover strength in friendship and perhaps something more. Morwen/Thengel.
1. Death in the family

March 2942

The messenger rode full tilt up the grass-carpeted road, his horse lathered and snorting. It was the herald out of Arnach, on an errand of grave importance. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion, he raced northward, sweat pouring down his face, soaking his clothes and hair. He changed mounts at a farm along the South Road to lend him speed before he plunged into the fabled valley of Imloth Melui.

He would not rest until his message had been carried from one end of the fief to the other. There were precious few settlements in Lossarnach, separated by many hedges, but he had seen each one before the day had ended - clattering over cobbled squares, standing on fountains, crying from the steps of their weathered houses. Now it promised to be day again. The sun had not yet touched the valley floor though the sky had turned to gray in the east. The deadly east.

The messenger leaned into the last leg of his journey. He kicked the gelding's sides and loosed the reins, giving the horse its head. The hollow tattoo of hooves on the loam kept his heart going. He would not fall out of the saddle from exhaustion or for any other reason. He would deliver his message.

An ancient stone pile under a thatch roof appeared beneath the colossal silver-green trees at the end of the greenway. Bar-en-Ferin, at last. Dogs raced out to meet the rider. The horse reared in nervous energy. He halloo'd and hollered until one-by-one faces appeared at the leaded windows, on the threshold, in the yard. He found the silver-eyed girl with the blue-black hair framed by her household beneath the arched lintel, the daughter of kings over the sea and the lords of flowering vales. The mistress of Imloth Melui, Hirwen's daughter.

"Hardang has fallen," he cried between gasps. "The Lord of Lossarnach is dead!"

* * *

Thanks to Lialathuveril and Gythja for supplying feedback! For those of you worried about starting a story that is still "in progress" - I have already finished the complete rough draft. No fear! Thanks for reading.


	2. Wanderlust

Hotspur and Steelsheen Ch. 2: Wanderlust and Rainstorms

"_Where the blood of a husband silences wars for the girl who arises to meet him." John Mark McMillan _

April 2942

Five riders stopped along the South Road that spilled out into the wide vale of Lossarnach in order to observe a curiosity, a road that split off from the beaten track. It disappeared into a shield of trees before the mouth of a valley tucked into the nape of the White Mountains. The arm of snowy peaks stretching east, ending in the pile of Mindoluin chiseled out by ancient masons to form Minas Tirith. The other arm tumbled south toward the Anduin.

Before them, under soaring beech trees, ran the greenway, a carpeted road of moss, flowers, and short grasses. It was not, of course, _the _Greenway which eventually connected to the Great West Road and fallen into disrepair. But then, roads had a way of sharing names.

One rider split off from his companions to ride a few paces down the lane. He stopped and removed his winged helm which had grown uncomfortably warm under the scrutiny of the rising sun, revealing startled, golden hair, cropped in the fashion of men who served Ecthelion, He'd banished the cloak of Ithilien green to his saddle bag just after they passed through the Rammas Echor and soon regretted the leather hauberk over his wool tunic, as well.

The shadowy forest looked inviting and cool. He felt something like wanderlust come over him. A novelty after the regimented lifestyle of one who ranged the eastern borders.

"Gladhon." The rider with the madcap hair gestured for another to trot up beside him along the narrow road. Gladhon guided the party as the one native of that fief and who stood out from his companions by his characteristic dark hair and eyes.

"Yes, my lord Thengel?"

"I have half a mind to see what lies that way," said Thengel. "How far would it take us out of our course to Garth Arnach?"

"The road runs west before it curves north into the crook between the mountain ranges. It ends in the valley of Imloth Melui. It leads directly out of our way, but it is worth seeing. The valley is the jewel of Lossarnach, or so we say. It's trees alone—"

"We have seen many trees, young Gladhon," the rider known as Cenhelm, said dryly. His braided gray and gold beard seemed to twitch with disapproval.

"Not these trees," Gladhon, replied confidently. "We've arrived at the best time of year. _Lossemeren_. The festival of blossoms."

At the back, another rider grunted. Guthere was a deep-chested, stocky man with red-gold hair that flowed from his face and head to cover him like a second armor. "Blossoms are all very well, but what about the hunting? We didn't come to pick flowers - or is that all the men do in this fief?"

Gladhon's face reddened as he scowled at the ribbing. He started to retort.

"Peace," said Lord Thengel, raising a placating hand. "I promised some sport, but let us not forget the first reason for our coming."

Guthere muttered into his beard.

Gladhon cleared his throat. "To answer our worthy Guthere's question, the deer are more plentiful than the farmers would like and the valley is full of other game. Foxes, pheasants, and rabbits. Once in a while the boars will come down from the mountain in the winter. We may still catch one yet."

"I wouldn't mind taking down a boar," said the last rider, Thurstan. He most resembled his master, though he chose to shave his beard and his scalp completely rather than cut it in the manner of the men of Gondor. Curious, twisted animals were inscribed in faded black ink on either side of his neck. He led the packhorse with their gear.

Lord Thengel shook his head. "I wouldn't attempt a boar unless we were twice as many as we are."

"I advise we keep to the South Road and arrive as speedily as may be at Lord Hardang's hall. We can hunt deer as often as we choose in Ithilien, my prince," Cenhelm pointed out.

He peered suspiciously into the valley. He did not like forests, as a rule, and a forest hedged in by high hills - the worst. They made it difficult to fulfill his oath as leader of the prince's honor guard to keep Rohan's heir alive and intact. A hunting expedition into unknown territory had not been his idea of a relaxing leave after ranging through orc-riddled Ithilien. That region was a nightmare, Lossarnach an irritation.

"Besides, the inhabitants may not know your name," he muttered darkly. "Can they be trusted?"

The prince stared upward as if he had seen a bizarre bird fly past. "This is Gondor, not Harad. Besides, there cannot be many inhabitants here," Thengel observed with amusement. "They certainly don't use the road."

"Very few live in that valley, my lord, though the road is used often enough by carts going back and forth with goods to Arnach and Minas Tirith. They green the road on purpose. There is a scattering of small settlements along the streams, mostly family-sized herb farms and bee yards. There is one large plantation renowned for its orchards. It is retained by Lady Morwen, daughter of Lord Randir. He was kin to Prince Angelemir of Dol Amroth."

"I know the prince's son," replied Thengel. "Adrahil lives in Minas Tirith for the time, does he not?"

Gladhon nodded. "I have heard that Prince Adrahil is coming with his new bride for the feast hosted in the great house, Bar-en-Ferin."

"Is that place nearby?" asked Cenhelm.

"It is a retired plantation deep in the valley between the streams that tribute the Erui."

"Who is this Lady Morwen?" asked Thengel. "Her name sounds familiar."

"She was Lord Hardang's cousin, somewhat removed on her mother's side. They share their great grandfather, Lord Halgemir. Hardang is the grandson of Halgemir's heir, Lord Hathol; the Lady Morwen descends from Halgemir's second son, Hador."

"It's about as comprehensible as any Rohirric genealogy," Thengel replied dryly. "Is she a free landholder?"

"No, she paid rents to Lord Hardang for the land."

"So we would not be trespassing if we journeyed into the valley?" asked Cenhelm doubtfully.

"No."

Thengel patted his mount's neck. "How much longer to Hardang's hall, Gladhon?"

"Another day's ride, lord."

"And the deer are considered a nuisance, you say?"

"Oh, yes. There is an expression in these parts that the deer are to Lossarnach as the orcs are to Ithilien." Gladhon frowned. "Of course, the refugees who came here from Ithilien don't find it amusing."

The comparison was tasteless, but to a farmer whose livelihood fell under constant threat of consumption it probably seemed apt. Lord Thengel considered for a moment a way to serve all the interests within the company. In the end, he had to sacrifice Cenhelm's.

"Gentlemen. What if we took a detour to lend a hand against this domestic strife?" he asked with a barely concealed grin. "We could make a gift of a haunch of venison to our host. A house in mourning might remember us better if we bring something to spread on their table."

All but Cenhelm answered agreeably.

"Then let us hunt." He reached widely to clap Cenhelm on the shoulder. "Relax, my friend. What could possibly happen?"

Cenhelm winced. He glanced grudgingly at the serene sky and light clouds scudding across it like swans on a pond. "It's an easterly wind."

Thengel laughed. "It's always an easterly wind to you. Gladhon, lead on."

...

Evening spread its cloak early over the valley. In a long, leaning house in the woods, a hearth fire danced shadows around the kitchen like a puppet master. When the kettle whistled on the hob, it took a moment for the two women seated at the table to notice it wasn't the sound of wind shrilling beneath the eaves. The housekeeper, iron-haired and slim as a gimlet, rose to pour boiling water into an old clay teapot for steeping. Fragrant, mint-scented steam issued from the spout to mingle in the kitchen with the smell of flour and rain.

"I'll tell you what," said the housekeeper to her friend, the cook, as she sat down again, "it's very glad I am to sit in doors at the kitchen table right about now. This house is groaning and shaking enough for these old bones of mine. Storm came up quickly tonight."

The fire sizzled in agreement as raindrops dribbled down the chimney.

"I pity any folk on the road and river without warning. The weather's that changeable." The cook puffed a frizzled strand of muddy hair away from her face that had slipped from its thick plait. "It caught my boy Gundor out in the back acres. He said a number of branches were already down."

"It's an ill wind that comes from the east," her friend replied sagely.

The housekeeper poured out the tea for them both. The warmth seeping from their mugs into their fingers, comfort in the wet spring night. The wind moaned between the house and the outbuildings, carrying with it the sound of the trees raking their branches together.

"I love a good spring storm, though. Nothing says winter's finally gone to bed like a spat of lightning and thunder." The cook tested the tea with her small finger, then shook off the few drops clinging to her skin. "We need the rain. Should help the buds along."

The housekeeper nodded. "Puts green back in the valley." Then her expression pinched. "The lady's not best pleased about her trees though."

The cook and the housekeeper shared a knowing glance.

"As if Lady Morwen could change the weather, though she's used enough to getting her way around here." The cook shrugged. "Anyway, let's hope that the wind leaves a few blossoms up for the festival. She's set on everything going beautifully."

"It's fitting if it doesn't - and I'm just saying," The housekeeper muttered with a sharp look out the south window. "What with Halmir and his brother coming up from Arnach when they ought to stay put. If Lord Hardang's widow won't come, I don't see why his brothers should. It'll be that cheerless."

The cook harrumphed her agreement then sipped her tea. "We could do with more cheer after the year we've had. First Lord Randir, then Lord Hardang. Why did Hardang want to go to Ithilien himself? He might have sent his brothers." She shuddered at evil memories.

The housekeeper grunted. "They may yet. Captain Ecthelion's that set on building his army."

"Some days I'd give my right arm to see those woods again - but it's a lesson to anyone who's thinking of leaving Lossarnach where it's sensible and safe."

Both the women jumped when thunder cracked over the house, sendings its echoes deep into the valley. They listened to its fading rumble like the sound of a dragon falling to sleep.

"Safe enough," said the housekeeper, then she gave the cook a shrewd look. "Did you do as I asked this morning?"

"See for yourself." The cook nudged her chin toward the fire hissing in the hearth.

The housekeeper squinted. "I don't see anything but fire and ashes."

The cook gave her a satisfied smile. "Well, then I was thorough, wasn't I?" she said. "Didn't you tell the lady that her black handkerchief fell in the fire?"

"I did." The housekeeper nodded conspiratorially. "I didn't tell her which fire."

The cook poured out the last of the tea, then asked, "What else did you tell her?"

"What? When she asked about the dress we dyed last summer for Lord Randir funeral?" The housekeeper sniffed. "Well, she caught it in the wagon wheel last harvest, didn't she? Ruined a whole panel. I cut up the rest for quilting."

"Her stockings we dyed with the dress?"

"Run through with holes after she went for blackberries."

The cook clucked her tongue. "I keep telling her to send Ioneth for a change. That girl could use a long walk - up hill both ways if possible," she muttered. "What else?"

"Oh, she wanted to know about that scarf Lord Randir brought her from Minas Tirith back when Lady Hirwen passed. I felt too badly about that one to hurt it, so I sent it down to old Midhel for dying. It was looking rusty after so many washes." She frowned. "Midhel probably won't have it back before summer's out, she's that slow these days."

"Is there anything left for mourning we haven't thought of?" asked cook. She tried to picture the contents of the linen cupboards.

"Naught but her own black hair."

The cook nodded in satisfaction. "It's been too long, as I said. Was Lady Morwen upset?"

The housekeeper blinked. "Upset? No, but I think she's on to us. Was sort of snippy about it only being a month since Lord Hardang fell."

The cook straightened up in her chair like she was ready to spring. "Well a month is all the folk down in Arnach gave before they put their weeds away back when our master passed - and he was Hardang's uncle by marriage. That's what your sister down at the garth told us."

"And so I told Lady Morwen," said the housekeeper, worry lines webbing her face. "But she said Randir wasn't the Lord of Lossarnach.

The cook brooded over her tea. "Well, and there's the question. Who is the Lord of Lossarnach?"

They fell into uncertain silence. Outside, the clouds hung their head over the valley walls, listening to the wind blow.

* * *

Many thanks to Lia and Gythja for feedback! And thank you for leaving a review.

Characters:

Adrahil: Son of Angelemir, Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's distant cousin

Angelemir: Ruling prince of Dol Amroth, a relative of Morwen's

Cenhelm: An overcareful Rohirric soldier, the captain of Thengel's honor guard.

Ecthelion: Captain of the Steward's armies, son of Steward Turgon

Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper

Gladhon: Gondorian soldier and guide, native to Lossarnach

Gundor: Morwen's farmhand, son of Hareth the cook, the scapegoat

Guthere: A Rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard

Hador: Morwen's grandfather, the useless brother of Hathol, son of Halgemir

Halgemir: Morwen's ancestor, an earlier Lord of Lossarnach

Halmir: Lord Hardang's useless brother

Hardang: Recently deceased lord of Lossarnach

Hareth: Morwen's cook

Hundor: Lord Hardang's other useless brother

Hathol: Lord of Lossarnach, son of Halgemir, grandfather of Hardang

Ioneth: Morwen's plump maidservant

Morwen: Heroine. The mistress of an orchard in Imloth Melui

Thengel: Hero. Banished prince of Rohan

Thurstan: A rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard


	3. Wind-Throwed

Hotspur & Steelsheen Ch. 3 – Wind-Throwed

The storm descended upon Thengel and his men in a blink. When securing a tent or any kind of shelter proved fruitless, the riders were forced to return eastward toward the greenway, with the cold wind in their faces. They had already traveled deep into the wooded valley before the storm suddenly kicked up, stirring up the canopy of new spring leaves. Sheets of rain began to fall so hard it hurt when the drops fell on exposed skin. Gladhon suggested in a series of shouts that they find one of the two streams rather than the road, as the folk of Imloth Melui were more likely to live on the water.

He had been right. Despite the noise of the storm, they heard the stream tumbling down from the valley wall shortly before they saw the first light of a homestead. A hermitage, from the look of the squat, hive-shaped stone cottage built agains the bank.

Gladhon banged on the wooden door and a head popped out after a short wait. It was a raggedy, salt-and-peppery head with eyes set back deep into the skull. The eyes surveyed the group with some surprise, lingering on Thengel before the hermit finally took note of the weather condition. A goat's head appeared through the door and bleated at them.

"Caught in the storm, eh?" His voice cracked. "Not a nice one to be out in, either."

"We would be much obliged if you'd share your shelter," Gladhon spoke for the group.

"If you don't mind the goats," the hermit replied.

They were relieved to find any shelter at all, even if it meant bunking with the hermit and his goats.

He sniffed, then told them where they could find a lean-to in a stand of trees behind the hut for their horses to shelter. They stabled the horses, took their belongings, then made their way back to the hut. Once inside, they hunched under the domed ceiling and dripped on the family of goats piled inside. The stink of them made Thengel's eyes water, which was a blessing in disguise as it blurred his vision. Their host, they discovered, was a nudist. An interesting fact that had been hidden by the door.

Thengel and his men spent the night packed into the hermitage, despite his misgivings. The space would have been confining for one man, let alone six. Also, Teitharion, as the man was called, made Thengel uncomfortable. When Thengel introduced himself, the man said he already knew who he was. Then there was the fact that Teitharion was an artist, the sort with those half-baked, idiosyncratic eyes that moved as if they were seeing two worlds overlapped against one another. He kept staring off at things that Thengel couldn't see.

Then there were the questions. For instance, "Aren't you expected in Minas Tirith this time of year?" Teitherion had given him a very knowing look.

Thengel's men stiffened around him at the mention of Mundburg. Even the goats seemed aware that their master was treading into forbidden pastures.

Thengel's expression hardened.

Teitharion went on, undisturbed by what he saw. "Just how old are you now?"

"Older," Thengel replied, voice hard as nails.

Teitharion nodded sagely. "I remember when you first rode into the city," he mused. "A moving spectacle, completely pathetic. I painted your picture, a boy with hair grown half-way down his back like a girl's, riding a horse most Gondorian men couldn't handle. The stuff histories are made of." His hand wavered in the air. "I titled it, _The Wayward Son in Exile. _I tried selling it with all my other paintings when I retired from public life. Nobody wanted it. Had to donate the thing to the Archives - much to the amusement of my rivals." He spat.

Thengel grinned dangerously, a telltale sign that he had reached the end of his patience. The expression had caused better men than Teitharion to soil themselves, but the artist missed it completely when he bent down to nuzzle one of his goats. Thengel had to hand it to Teitharion. He had a knack for knowing exactly how to make a group of Rohirric warriors extremely ill-at-ease. Thengel's presence in Gondor, though far from classified information, remained a taboo subject among the revolving door of Rohirric body guards sent to Gondor over the years. The atmosphere in the hermitage felt taut as a bowstring and the past was a poisoned dart. Pluck at the string and someone was bound to get hurt.

Moreover, it unsettled Thengel to discover that deep in the wooded valley of Imloth Melui, a place he had never been, a perfect stranger had memories of the day which had seemed like a threshold to Thengel. Not even Cenhelm could claim as much. The men his uncle had sent with that boy - Thengel had a difficult time thinking of himself as that youthful heir of Fengel King - had long since returned to Rohan. It seemed anymore that only Thengel's foster father and brother ever recollected Thengel before he had decided he needed to cut his hair in the same style as Ecthelion's and wear the same clothes. He felt more comfortable in the foil of Ecthelion's lieutenant than in the skin of the prince of Rohan.

Thengel forced the muscles in his face to relax as he willed his temper to recede. In twenty years he had learned something about containing it, but it had always been swift and strong like the storm that had caught them that evening.

The conversation died out with the mention of Minas Tirith and his men were pulling their cloaks over their shoulders to sleep slumped against the curved walls of the hut. Thengel unrolled his own cloak and pulled the hood over his head, but sleep did not come right away. The goats were fidgety and Teitherion mumbled the names of his rivals in his sleep. At least, Thengel thought they were the rivals. They might have been the names of his goats.

They rose before dawn to discover that the horses were missing and the rickety lean-to where they had been stabled utterly collapsed under the storm.

"Well?" said Cenhelm over the sound of the wind. It hadn't died down, even if the rain stopped and the clouds dispersed. It reminded Thengel of Cenhelm's warning from the day before.

"Teach me to follow a whim," Thengel replied bitterly. They ought to have ridden straight to Garth Arnach. "Grab your gear, gentlemen. We're hunting horses this morning."

Thengel put Thurstan and Guthere in the lead, as their tracking skills were superior. After the initial confusion old and new tracks along the bank, Guthere picked out that the freshest trail of hooves in the soft earth led south. Eventually it left the river bank, for the woods. They followed this for several miles when the trail showed signs that at least one of the horses had veered away from the others, Guthere went on his own to see if it was a dud trail or not.

While they waited for him to return, Thengel crouched with his back against a tree trunk and took the opportunity to pass around one of their water skins. He murmured his thanks that they had their saddlebags, even if it meant carrying them as the heat of the day increased with the rising sun. The other blessing was the strong wind that blew coolly out of the east, the forest full with the sound of its rushing and the bony creaking of limbs. Thengel could feel the tree rocking against his back as it rocked the canopy above, scattering the light that filtered down through the waving leaves. He watched the patterns change on the forest floor, mesmerized until Cenhelm interrupted his revery after the water had gone around several times and they had eaten a mouthful of bread.

"Guthere ought to be back by now to report," Cenhelm pointed out impatiently "It's nearly noon. Béma only knows how far the horses have gone by now."

Cenhelm spoke correctly, as always. A feeling of unease settled over their band. They waited for the prince to command them. Reluctant to split the group any more, he decided they all would follow the trail in the direction Guthere had gone in hopes that they might meet him coming back.

They fanned out beneath the trees wherever the heavy undergrowth would allow, though keeping one another within the line of sight in case Guthere or any of the horses should show themselves. Thengel's unease turned to dread when they had walked nearly a mile. Guthere shouldn't have come this far.

"Prince Thengel - over here!" he heard Thurstan cry. Gladhon and Cenhelm rushed with Thengel toward their companion's voice.

Thurstan kneeled beside a fallen tree near the roots, which hung in dirty tangles. The dirt around it looked loose and recently disturbed. Around them, the other trees, all tall and wide with age, leaned ominously in the wind. Below Thurstan, Guthere lay unconscious and in a bad state, half obscured by branches which had trapped him beneath the trunk of the old beech tree.

"I can't get him out," Thurstan told him. "Help me lift the tree away."

It took some doing to lift the branches enough to pull Guthere out from under them. The branches that had trapped him had also saved his life, keeping the full weight of the trunk from crushing him, skull, neck, and spine. They tried waking Guthere, but then they discovered something that made all of their hearts sink into their guts. Barely visible through Guthere's thick, red hair, a gash arced just above his left ear, revealing cracked bone. The branch had broken his skull.

Although bloody, the wound seemed to have congealed. Odd, as head wounds bled profusely. Guthere's face looked swollen and deathly gray. There were cuts on his face and neck, but the leather hauberk had protected his chest from scrapes.

"Do we have anything to bind the wound?" Thurstan asked.

"Nothing but dirty clothes."

"Binding won't be much help for a cracked skull that's not bleeding," said Cenhelm, even as he cut a sleeve from the spare tunic in his saddlebag. "He needs a healer."

"We shouldn't move him like this."

"We can't leave him here," Thengel pointed out. "It'll take twice as long if we find a healer and have to bring him back. If our ill-luck holds, we'd most likely get lost trying to find our way here again."

"How will we carry him?" Thurstan asked. "Guthere's not exactly a bucket of oats."

Cenhelm frowned deeply. "And where is there to go? Back to the hermit's hut? The bad air would kill him if the head wound did not."

"No," said Thengel. "Gladhon, you're our guide. What do you say?"

Gladhon considered a moment, looking for all the world that he wished someone else had been guide. "If we make a litter, we can carry him to Bar-en-Ferin," he said eventually. "It is the closest settlement, I deem."

So, they assembled a makeshift litter for Guthere out of sturdy, young branches run through several tunics to hold them together and bear the man's weight. Like slaves carrying a Harad king through the marketplaces, or pallbearers, they carried Guthere's litter out of the woods toward the greenway. Picking out a path through the bracken proved difficult and Guthere was not a lightweight, but he made no sound and they were too worried to complain about the difficulty.

Their spirits rose a mite when at last they saw a stone wall through the trees, heralding a settlement. Over the top of the wall, they saw clouds of white and pink. The crowns of fruit trees in blossom.

Gladhon seemed doubly encouraged by the sight. "We've reached the orchard. Good. The house isn't far."

"Whose house?" Thengel asked.

"Lady Morwen's."

Thengel had a sudden misgiving. Would a lady help a group of foreign soldiers? Would she appreciate them carrying a bloodied man into her home? Gondorian women were not especially sturdy, he thought. At least, not the ones he knew in Minas Tirith. But then, what choice did they have? Guthere would die without aid.

They followed the road under a colonnade of beech trees before Gladhon led them down a narrower path that parted an arbor of birches. They were all relieved when they saw the eaves of a house peeking out through the canopy of leaves.

The woodlot ended in a grassy yard. They were near the house and beyond it were several outbuildings, a barn and smaller sheds. A host of mottled dogs raced toward them, making a racket. Thengel and Gladhon had to kick them back.

A plump, dark-haired girl appeared around the opposite corner of the house carrying a large basket of garden stuff. She yelled at the dogs to quit yawping at squirrels before she saw the strangers who had attracted them. The basket dropped when she saw their gory cargo. Bundles of greens spilled out at her feet. The color bled from her cheeks and her eyes were large with panic. She looked like she might scream.

"Peace, we are friends," said Gladhon hurriedly. "Our companion is injured. We need a healer."

The girl seemed at a loss for words, simply gaped at the straw-haired men. The dogs were silent but tense, feeding on her paralysis.

"What is your name?" Thengel asked with exaggerated calm. He admitted they were probably a fright to look at, between their foreign looks and the mess Guthere was in. When working with frightened new recruits in Ithilien, he discovered it helped to communicate with them if they started with something familiar, facts they knew by rote such as their names.

"Ioneth," she said automatically.

"Ioneth," he continued, "We need to tend this man's wounds. Can you take us inside?"

The sound of her name, though strange on his tongue, seemed to pull her out of her stupor somewhat. The girl nodded dumbly, even if she couldn't manage words. After picking up her basket, she led them in through large arched doors into a hall. It was a spacious, long room built from heavy beams and plaster that had been patched over and painted many times. Thengel could see a stair that led up into the second story, a wider door that led, perhaps, to the kitchens, and a hearth behind scattered furniture.

A stately old woman met them there, attracted by the sound of the door. She carried a bundle of rich fabric in her arms, half lifted as if to display it. Thengel could tell from her expression that she expected someone else, but after she took one look at the men, their litter, and the pale Ioneth, she rearranged her expectations and seemed to understand what to do. Thengel muttered a prayer of thanks to Béma for at least one level head in the place.

"I'm sorry - I found them in the yard and —" Ioneth stammered as the iron-haired woman pulled her out of the way of the litter so that the men could get in through the doors.

The old woman ignored her and spoke directly to Thengel and his men. "Set him over there," she said, directing them to a long, heavy wooden table. She cleared off candles, a jug of flowers, as well as the embroidered runner that they rested on, to make room for Guthere's body.

They laid the bloodied Guthere on the table and carefully withdrew the litter from under him. Cenhelm helped Thurstan disassemble the branches from their tunics.

"What happened here?" the old woman asked. "A hunting accident?"

Gladhon answered, "We were caught in the storm last night. This morning we found our companion struck down by a fallen tree in the northern end of the valley."

"Wind-throwed," the old woman muttered knowingly. "It's solid wood that way. Too many old trees." Then she addressed the girl. "Gundor's in the kitchen finishing his lunch. Tell him to fetch Nanneth immediately. Ask Hareth for something to use for bandages."

Ioneth seemed happy for an excuse to leave the room. She disappeared in a trice through the passage beside the hearth.

"Nanneth is our healer," the woman explained. "She trained under the masters in the House of Healing years ago. She may know what to do."

"Thank you," said Thengel. He took her hand and bowed over it. "I am Lord Thengel and these are my men, Gladhon, Cenhelm, and Thurstan. This injured man is Guthere. You must be Lady Morwen."

The old woman blinked, then turned beet red. "Goodness gracious," she said.

Thengel shot a glance at Gladhon, then back at the woman. "I was told this is Lady Morwen's dwelling."

"It is." Even the woman's ears were bright with color. "Forgive me - that is - I am not Lady Morwen, but her servant, Gildis. My lady is not here."

It was Thengel's turn to blink stupidly. She took back her hand. Not Lady Morwen? He had been betrayed by his own expectations and her self-possession and easy command. It was a simple mistake, but the woman's obvious distress and embarrassment at being mistaken for her mistress was palpable.

"Will she arrive soon?" Gladhon asked. "I'm afraid we are trespassing on her hospitality."

Gildis nodded stiffly, her color still high. "I expected her back for the noon meal. She is in the orchard with our overseer."

So they had likely passed Lady Morwen on their way to the house. Thengel preferred that she had been here to invite them in herself. The lady would receive an unpleasant surprise. Still, he thought, she could hardly refuse to help.

A gawking boy of perhaps fifteen passed through the hall to have a look at Guthere. Thengel noticed Gildis give him a sharp look. The boy shrugged and ran out the door.

"Who was that?" Thengel asked.

"Gundor," she answered with a waspish tone. "He probably wanted to know how fast he needed to run."

Thengel frowned. "How long will it take to fetch the healer?"

"Nanneth does not live far, but she is old. Excuse me." Gildis left them to draw their own conclusions, disappearing through the same doors the girl had.

The men exchanged grim looks once they were alone. Thengel laid his hand on Guthere's heavy chest. It barely moved. Without a word, Cenhelm helped Thengel loosen the hauberk to ease the restriction on the man's torso.

"What now?" Gladhon asked.

"There's little we can do except make him comfortable and clean him up," Cenhelm told them.

They stood there feeling useless and anxious about their companion. For men used to action, waiting would always be the worst. But one thing could be done, even if it wouldn't benefit Guthere directly.

"We still need to find the horses. Gladhon, Thurstan, you go. Take what bread and water remains. Cenhelm and I will look after Guthere."

They bowed and retreated from the hall, leaving Cenhelm and Thengel alone with the prone body of their friend.

"Marshal Oswin will not be pleased one of his riders fell on a hunting lark," Cenhelm murmured as Thengel inspected the wound beneath the bit of sleeve they'd torn from a tunic.

"My uncle is rarely pleased with anything I do," Thengel replied bitterly. "But he won't be nearly as unforgiving as I will be if Guthere doesn't pull through."

Cenhelm gave him a strange look which Thengel did not see. "Your uncle's one fault is that he is more forgiving than you realize."

Gildis returned then, bringing clean linen when Ioneth did not reappear. Others of the household were starting to gather out of curiosity. Thengel ignored them, concentrating on his man. Cenhelm cut the sheet into strips with his knife. A bowl of water also appeared, which they used to clean up some of the caked mud and grit.

Thengel gently pressed a wet rag into the gash above Guthere's ear where the blood had congealed. The rag came away red and brown from blood and dirt. He dipped the rag in the bowl and the water turned a murky pink. The gash began to bleed sluggishly. Cenhelm pressed a fresh rag over it.

"We'll reopen all the cuts if we keep this up," Cenhelm observed. "He's already white from loss of blood."

"The dirt has to be cleaned away," Thengel countered.

Their discussion was interrupted by the scrape-and-chink of the iron door latch as it rose and fell, followed by the groan of hinges. Gildis turned expectantly toward the sound. The door swung open and a girl appeared under the arch. Tall, and fair, and gray-eyed. There were pink petals caught in the chaos of her windswept hair that lay around her shoulders like a mantle. When her eyes swept the room and met Thengel's, his breath hitched in his throat.

Gildis stepped forward. "Oh, Lady Morwen. Thank goodness you're back!"

* * *

AN: Sorry if this chapter was a bit rough! Time has not been on my side of late.

Characters:

Adrahil: Son of Angelemir, Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's distant cousin

Angelemir: Ruling prince of Dol Amroth, a relative of Morwen's

Cenhelm: An overcareful Rohirric soldier, the captain of Thengel's honor guard.

Ecthelion: Captain of the Steward's armies, son of Steward Turgon

Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper

Gladhon: Gondorian soldier and guide, native to Lossarnach

Gundor: Morwen's farmhand, son of Hareth the cook, the scapegoat

Guthere: A Rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard

Hador: Morwen's grandfather, the useless brother of Hathol, son of Halgemir

Halgemir: Morwen's ancestor, an earlier Lord of Lossarnach

Halmir: Lord Hardang's useless brother

Hardang: Recently deceased lord of Lossarnach

Hareth: Morwen's cook

Hundor: Lord Hardang's other useless brother

Hathol: Lord of Lossarnach, son of Halgemir, grandfather of Hardang

Ioneth: Morwen's plump maidservant

Morwen: Heroine. The mistress of an orchard in Imloth Melui

Teithalion: An eccentric artist/hermit

Thengel: Hero. Banished prince of Rohan

Thurstan: A rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard


	4. Headbroke

A breeze followed the girl through the open door, billowing her skirts and hair out ahead of her. Her boots fell like drum beats over the flagstone floor. The members of the household seemed to bend around her, waiting. She nodded to Gildis by way of greeting as she swept past. Petals drifted to the floor in her wake.

Cenhelm and Thengel exchanged matching looks of surprise. This was the lady of the house? Thengel combed his memory and realized Gladhon had never described the lady of Bar-en-Ferin at all. Thengel merely assumed that a woman who ran her own household would naturally be more advanced in years. A wealthy widow, perhaps, or an old maid with an unfortunate face. This child-woman didn't meet any of those expectations.

A gaunt man shadowed Lady Morwen. He seemed to be made of gristle and deep crags. Thengel wondered briefly if they were father and daughter before dismissing it. Both had blue-black hair (he even sported blossoms too) and wore simple linen garments, not especially clean. Yet, the scarecrow figure deferred to the young woman, at least in posture.

The lady's eyes fixed on Guthere after they scanned the room, wondering perhaps who the strangers were with their straw-colored hair and what had they left on the table? If the sight startled her, she did not show it. Thengel could feel the loss of her attention as a weight falling from his shoulders. Her dress hem brushed Thengel's boots as she passed him by with as much consideration as one might have for a fence post. The scarecrow kept his distance, but Thengel felt the fine hairs on his arms and neck prickle under the other man's scrutiny.

"Stars," she breathed, taking in the gore. "What happened?" Her voice sounded young, but weighted with authority. When the stink of blood and body odor hit her, she pressed the back of her hand against her nose. Her hands were delicate and smooth, but Thengel noticed dirt beneath the nails.

Gildis stepped forward. "Your pardon, Lady Morwen. These men were in sore need of help. I let them in."

Gildis, he noticed, wouldn't quite meet Thengel's eye when she explained their presence to Lady Morwen. Perhaps her nerves still smarted from their earlier misunderstanding. He thought he understood her shock better now.

The lady's scarecrow surveyed the two strangers while Guthere's injuries absorbed Lady Morwen's attention. The man seemed uncertain of which of the strangers deferred to the other so he knew who to address. Cenhelm boasted fifteen more summers than Thengel and bore himself with the proud gravity typical of their people. He dressed like any other man in Riddermark, coarse wool tunic and leather riding trousers and hauberk. Thengel bore the insignia of Captain Ecthelion's men on his hauberk over the fine wool tunic he had received from Turgon in anticipation of his name day. The scarecrow studied the insignia.

"We do not often meet strangers in this valley or those from distant lands," the scarecrow observed, his suspicion of strangers evident in his deep-set eyes. "What purpose brought you to Imloth Melui?"

Thengel felt the cool interest of Lady Morwen's eyes fall on him again. He decided to address her rather than her servant.

"My lady, I led a hunting party deep into the valley yesterday. The wind threw down a rotting tree in our companion's path this morning. He was not fortunate enough to escape its heavy branches."

"Unfortunate fellow," Lady Morwen remarked. She leaned over the prostrated body, examining the bloody head, gently lifting the soaked bandage just above his ear. The inflamed skin distorted Guthere's features and she grimaced.

"He lives?" she asked with wonder.

"Barely, my lady," Thengel told her. "He breathes but we cannot wake him."

Lady Morwen glanced up at Thengel. "I think it would not be a kindness to wake him now, if you could. This wound is swelling badly. Do you see?"

The skin on Guthere's scalp and around the cut exposing the skull looked tight and painful in the patches Thengel could see through his thick hair. His cheek and jaw looked exaggerated and misshapen by the swelling. A deep, purple bruise encircled his eye.

"What is his name?" Lady Morwen asked.

"Guthere," Cenhelm answered.

"Guthere," she said slowly. "A strange name. What has been done for him?" She turned toward the iron-haired housekeeper. "Gildis?"

The old woman stepped forward. "I sent Gundor to fetch Nanneth, my lady."

The scarecrow snorted. The lady gave him a sharp glance with her glacial eyes in what seemed to be a warning. Thengel felt ire swell in his chest like an explosion. He didn't understand the meaning behind the scarecrow's reaction to Gildis's news and he didn't like it. If they could joke while his friend slowly suffocated, they'd have Thengel to reckon with.

"Is something amusing?" he asked with a calm that belied his deteriorating mood. "This woman, Nanneth, she is a healer?"

"Of course," Lady Morwen said. "Ignore Beldir. He was out of humor with Gundor this morning."

The scarecrow, Beldir, did not challenge her explanation but moved a few steps away from the table. His eyes were ever on Thengel and Cenhelm as if waiting for trouble. Thengel didn't thank him for it, but understood how it might be for a household set deep in a valley with only the vigilance of a few to keep order and safety at hand. After all, with his men scattered or injured, Thengel was hardly in a position to vocalize his annoyance.

Lady Morwen glanced down at the dirty water in the bowl beside Cenhelm. "Gildis, bring hot water. Take this bowl away."

"Hareth is boiling a pot now," said Gildis as she took the bowl.

"And Gildis-" Lady Morwen called before the woman disappeared. "Bring something for these men to drink as well."

Cenhelm glanced at Lady Morwen gratefully. Neither Thengel nor his guard had realized their own thirst until that moment. The servant girl, pink-faced Ioneth, appeared again with an earthenware jug of cider and mugs after Gildis disappeared. Thengel thought her hands must be shaking terribly, judging by the amount of liquid sloshing in the jug. When he offered to help her, she squeaked and almost dropped everything. Thengel and Cenhelm got out of her way then and didn't approach the cider until the girl ran off to blush in a corner until Gildis wanted her again.

Thengel nodded to Cenhelm to allow the lady to take their places at Guthere's side while they accepted the offered refreshment. He watched Lady Morwen inspect the other wounds staunched by the cloth. Oblivious to the beautiful woman standing over him, Guthere's deep chest heaved with effort, but only seemed to manage shallow intakes of air and wheezing exhales that suggested little relief.

Touching Guthere's hand, Lady Morwen quickly snatched it away. "He is cold."

She had only to point to a fleece blanket folded over the back of a careworn armchair by the hearth and Ioneth fetched it. She draped it over the rider's legs and torso, then turned to remove Guthere's filthy boots. Thengel stopped her then.

"No," he said, reaching out to grasp her hands before she could so much as untie a lace. "They are dirty and not fit for a lady to touch," he said when she glanced up at him in surprise, then back down at her hands enveloped in his. He jerked his chin at Cenhelm to remove the boots.

Lady Morwen withdrew her hands from his as if they were made of gold and his were covered in bear grease. She stared at him, her brow rising imperiously.

"And who are you?" she finally asked.

"Forgive me." He inclined his head. "I am called Thengel, Prince of Rohan, first lieutenant under Ecthelion. These are my men. Guthere, on the table, and Cenhelm, the leader of my guard."

He waited for the usual reaction whenever he dropped his title on a new acquaintance. The scarecrow took another step back. As for the lady, her eyes widened, though barely.

"Your guard?" She glanced around the room, as if expecting more blond riders to spring out of the shadows.

"My other men, Thurstan and Gladhon, are out seeking our horses who were lost during the storm."

"Forgive me, I am not familiar with Rohan's princes," she said crisply, in a tone that suggested she ought to forgive him for being obscure for an important personage. She mirrored the prince's barest bow. "Be welcome to my home."

"Thank you," he drawled. Thengel couldn't tell if her pride annoyed or amused him. He chalked it up to her relative youth and stress of coming home to discover strangers had converted her hall into a sick room.

"If we're expecting more horses, I best make room in the stable," said the scarecrow.

Lady Morwen nodded with a glance over her shoulder. "Very well, Beldir."

Gildis cleared her throat, having approached them unseen on the way from the kitchen. Lady Morwen moved away from the table to allow the other woman to place a steaming pitcher of water and lay out new cloths draped over her arm on the table near Guthere's side. By now a pool of blood spread out in a crown below Guthere's head like spilled mead. Gildis reached for a cloth, but Cenhelm silently insisted on cleaning his underling's injuries himself and mopping up the mess. Carefully, he washed Guthere's face, beard, and hair, gentle and careful not to further damage the inflamed skin.

###

Guthere's irregular breathing became uncomfortably obvious as they waited for the healer in silence. Gasps for air, prolonged gaps between inhales, made it painful for all of them to breathe, as if their lungs were invisibly linked to the dying man's.

Thengel supplied more strips of cloth for Cenhelm, occasionally murmuring to one another. They were a tight-knit group around the table. That the lady stayed so close surprised Thengel. There was nothing for her to do, after all, until the healer arrived and the sight and stink made even his seasoned stomach queasy. But she stayed, occasionally touching Guthere's hand and murmuring his name. She seemed equal parts autocrat and kind. He caught himself watching her more than once trying to puzzle her out.

"Why do you call his name?" Cenhelm asked her curiously when she did it again. "He will not wake."

"It helps to hear a friendly voice," she replied. "To encourage him to heal. At least, it works on my seedlings."

She didn't see the strange look Cenhelm exchanged with Thengel over her head, distracted suddenly by the baying of the dogs.

###

The dogs announced Nanneth's arrival. The somber atmosphere in the room shifted and Thengel realized how choked he'd felt by anxiety and the wait. The doors opened on a squat old woman seemingly made of flaps and bulges. She carried a heavy bag over one shoulder and her grandson on her hip, the child only five or six. Beldir and the lad Gundor arrived behind her. Nanneth set the boy down, then cleared the area by the table by butting them all away with her wide hips. Without a word to anyone, she peeled the cloths away and inspected the wounds. The accordion-like skin of her lips stretched and contracted as she hummed to herself. Thengel thought she inspected wounds the way other people inspected meat before they paid the butcher's boy.

Nanneth mumbled something, her voice a toothless mash of sounds, but Gildis and Lady Morwen seemed to understand. They went to a tall chest that stood between the windows where heavy silver candleholders rested. They lit them when they returned to the table and placed them near Guthere's head. Nanneth murmured names under her breath and the boy found her the object in the bag, strange tinctures in waxed jars, spools, cloth, anything.

Nanneth surveyed the head, mostly clear of blood, but for a slow seepage from the troubling wound on the side of his head. She opened Guthere's mouth, lifted his tongue, harrumphed, then peeled back his eyelids.

Raising Guthere's hand in the air, Nanneth let it drop with a dull, fleshy bump on the table. Then she went back to his head. Thengel wanted to ask her what on Middle-earth she meant to learn from any of this, but he didn't dare interrupt. With a few indecipherable words to her grandson, the boy retrieved a pair of sheers. Nanneth cut away the thick, matted hair around the wound.

The probing continued, along with a stream of Nanneth's garbled words. Slowly, Thengel began to understand a few of them here and there. Despite Lady Morwen's assertion that he had nothing to fear in terms of Nanneth's skills, he began to doubt again as she probed the skull and sniffed at it. He almost stopped her when she bent her ear down to his skull and started tapping around with her knuckles. She straightened up.

"Headbroke," Nanneth said by way of diagnosis.

"That we knew," said Thengel, barely concealing a growl. "We don't need a healer to tell us-" He felt Cenhelm's arm on his shoulder.

Nanneth shrugged off Thengel's outburst like a fly. "Don't sound right. The swelling's gumming things up."

Suddenly her finger tipped into the open area above Guthere's ear and lifted the skin away from the skull. Lady Morwen, who had remained during the inspection, turned away from the table with a small groan.

"Can anything be done?" Cenhelm asked.

Nanneth held up a finger, then mumbled again to the boy who pulled out an awl and small mallet. Nanneth accepted the tools, then pantomimed hammering actions along Guthere's skull while making cracking sounds.

Cenhelm went pale. "You want to poke more holes in his head?"

Nanneth nodded pleasantly. They could hear one of the dogs scratching at the dirt outside, the room had fallen so quiet. Thengel had heard of such procedures, but they took place in the theater in the House of Healing by the most skilled healers the world of Men had to offer. Not on someone's dining table by an old woman whose assistant still had his milk teeth.

"Certainly not," he told her.

The old woman shrugged, as if Prince Thengel's opinion was neither here nor there.

Lady Morwen, still turned away, asked, "Nanneth, have you ever done this before?"

"I saw it done once," Nanneth mumbled. "In Minas Tirith years ago."

"Years ago?" Cenhelm sputtered.

"Nanneth wouldn't suggest it if she didn't think Guthere had a chance," said Lady Morwen.

Thengel agreed with Cenhelm. "The risk is too great."

Nanneth laid a fluffy, spotted hand on Guthere's forehead. "Then he dies."

Thengel rubbed his jaw, a day's worth of growth comfortingly abrasive on his skin. He had to weigh the decision carefully, after all, as responsibility for this retinue ultimately fell on him. Cenhelm and Thengel stepped away from the table to confer without being overheard.

"I regret coming here," Cenhelm confided in Rohirric. "There's more of witchcraft about that woman, than healing. I've never heard of anyone knocking holes into a man's head to heal him. She's ancient enough to be senile and I wouldn't blame her if she was. It doesn't give her leave to butcher injured men. And who is her assistant? A child. _Helm's beard_."

"I don't pretend to understand, but I know it has been done before," said Thengel tiredly. "The conditions are not ideal, but Lady Morwen seems to think the woman knows what she's doing."

"Lady Morwen is a child herself, if you haven't noticed," Cenhelm muttered. "Who is she that we take her word? This isn't a field hospital. How often do they see wounds of this magnitude in Imloth Melui?"

Thengel weighed these things in his mind. The pressure to decide made his eyes ache. "One thing we know without Nanneth telling us is that Guthere will die." His voice filled with regret. "I say we try."

"Very well, my lord," Cenhelm answered stiffly.

Returning to the table, Thengel gave the healer a nod. The boy produced a razor and strop for his grandmother to use. She went to work after a little sharpening, shaving Guthere's head, then pinning back the skin to expose bone. She took the awl and hammer and with careful precision, made the first hole.

The servants scattered after the first scrape of the awl against bone. Only Lady Morwen remained and her servant Beldir. She had not turned toward the table since Nanneth lifted the flap of skin above the broken skull, but she held her place with her back to the table through the hammering and sound of cracking bone. Thengel found he could not look away as the old woman made a wreath of holes in the skull, then carefully chipped away at the bone to unite them till a small disk came loose.

Thengel realized then that he had been holding his breath. But releasing it had been a mistake. Lady Morwen turned, as if the sound meant the worst had passed. Instead, she witnessed Nanneth dipping her finger into the open wound.

"Hnh," Nanneth grunted, then pulled out her finger. It made a small sucking sound and a purple globule and a bit of bone came out with it. There was a collective gasp of, "Oh!" around the table. Lady Morwen spun around took a few teetering steps away from the scene.

"Whoop," said the old lady as previously blocked blood pooled on the table.

###

Nanneth wound clean linen around the wound after what seemed like a very short time to Thengel. One by one, the curious servants returned who had scattered when the trepaning first began. Now they had only to wait to see how Guthere would respond to the surgery. This meant that other business presented itself - like whether or not the lady would accept strange men as house-guests. Thengel tapped Cenhelm on the arm and indicated that Guthere was in his care. The guard nodded his understanding and stood sentinel over the table. Thengel walked toward Lady Morwen, who waited apart from the others.

"Might I have a word, Lady Morwen?" he asked quietly.

Cheeks washed of color, her eyes were glazed and stared unseeing down the dark corridor opposite the table. Thengel seemed to be calling her out of some deep well of thought. After a moment, she blinked up at him.

"Is it safe?" Lady Morwen murmured.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Guthere's head had been crowned white with linen and Nanneth had turned her attention to the other cuts and scrapes on his face and neck. "For the moment," he answered. "I'm sorry the blood troubles you."

Lady Morwen's eyes focused sharply on his as if he had insulted her. "I can tolerate blood as well as anybody. Lifting the skin away from the wound, however." She shuddered again, pressing her palm to her mouth.

"Try not to think about it," he advised.

She flashed him a look over her hand as if to say she would have done so already if possible - and if he hadn't brought it up again.

"You seem to have no trouble." Her voice sounded tight with suppressed sick.

Thengel tried to look apologetic. He thought dispassionately about the surgery instruments, the white bone, the viscous dye blooming over the cloths. Soldiers performed their own operations, less delicate, typically successful. Killing came easier than healing and he'd grown accustomed to it. Human blood, at least, had a beautiful jewel tone he could appreciate. Not the oily black muck orcs sprayed whenever they were gutted by a blade. He decided not to explain that.

Instead, he asked, "Is there another place where we might talk?"

Lady Morwen led Thengel across the hall toward the cavernous hearth where two chairs stood. She gestured for him to take the chair across the buckskin rug near the fire that burned low in the grate. The fire provided a little light for the room. Though just past noon already the shadows of evening were falling across the valley where the walls acted as screens to block the sun. He looked around the hall, seeing for the first time beyond the tunnel vision brought on by the crisis. Narrow windows, set in walls almost as thick as his arm was long, allowed bars of light to dissect the stone floor. High-backed chairs and wooden benches were pushed back against the walls after the last meal near the chest where the candles came from. The table commanded the center of the room, though there were divots in the stone nearer the corridor that suggested years of a head table in that area during feasts. Lamps hung unused from old beams. They were smaller and poorer than ones used in Mithlond, but beautiful in their simplicity. He could imagine it would cost Lady Morwen a fortune in oil to light them regularly. His attention returned then to the young woman and her hearth. She chose the chair that faced away from the table. A few sheaves of paper were piled on one of the broad arms and he could just see the makings of a list. _Wine - Adrahil_. _Cabbages… _

"What can I do for you, Prince Thengel?" she asked, drawing his attention away from the list. The imperious manner she had adopted earlier had fallen away and here he found the woman Morwen, not the Lady of Bar-en-Ferin.

"Pardon us for troubling your house," he said humbly. "We're in a bind. Guthere cannot be moved and the rest of my men are still tracking our horses. I'm afraid we have nowhere to go and must trespass on your hospitality."

Lady Morwen tapped her lips with a long finger. "I see your predicament. It would be impossible for you to move your friend, even if you had the means. And where would you go? I have rooms to spare with a little shuffling. There were five of you, I believe?"

"Yes," Thengel answered. "Though I do not know when to expect the last of our party to return with our horses." He leaned back in the chair as his body remembered it ought to be tired. "Our luck was against us today."

"Frankly, it's _good_ luck that only one of your men suffered injury after the storm we had," she mused.

"That is one way of looking at it," Thengel agreed. "And we were fortunate to find aid so readily in a place where we are unknown."

"Guthere will receive all the care we can give," she assured him. "We do not turn away those in need in Lossarnach."

Thengel bowed his head. "Thank you, my lady."

She waved away his thanks. "Perhaps you can answer some of my questions. How exactly did you withstand the storm?"

"We passed the storm in the hut of an artist." The memory made him cringe. The stink of goat hit him again.

"Teitharion?" she gasped, then covered her mouth to hide a knowing grin. "I'm sorry."

Thengel smiled grimly. "He has a reputation, I see."

Lady Morwen nodded behind her hand. Then she sobered and a line appeared between her eyes as a thought struck her. "You seemed surprised when I arrived," she recalled.

"You noticed?" he said. Thengel wished she hadn't. "Well, when Gladhon described a plantation in a retired valley, I thought it belonged to…"

The lady failed to conceal a smirk. "A retired woman?" she finished.

"Forgive me," he said, not without humor. "I mistook your housekeeper for you."

"What? Gildis!" Lady Morwen looked like she might hug herself.

While Thengel appreciated this mood over her more imperious one, he felt a bit sour at being laughed at. After all, it was an honest mistake.

"I have met few…to be honest, _no_ women your age who are head of their household," he pointed out.

"I suppose not," she replied blandly, as if she couldn't be bothered to care what anyone thought about her household or her age. Fortunately, she changed the subject. "What brought you to Imloth Melui in the first place, may I ask?"

"Certainly." Thengel rubbed his aching eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. "I met Lord Hardang during my last tour of Ithilien. He spoke often of Lossarnach and its beauty. A month ago I returned to Minas Tirith from Ithilien after a long absence, as I am sure you have heard of our struggles in that land."

Lady Morwen frowned, her eyes dim and thoughtful. "We have felt it even in Lossarnach. Not the danger, exactly," she was hasty to add. "But Lord Hardang was my kinsmen and he fell in Ithilien. Did you know him well?"

"Well enough. Hardang stood with me in the final push that freed Ecthelion and his company from the orcs assaulting one of his fortified dens in Emyn Arnen."

This was news, it seemed. The skin around Lady Morwen's eyes grew tight with some emotion. He wished she hadn't asked about the why he'd come to Lossarnach, but he could understand her desire to know. It must not happen often. He doubted many visitors had such a sad connection to her own family.

"I have heard precious little about my cousin's final moments," she confided, eyes fixed on her knees. "And nothing of his time in that part of the country after the Steward called on him to send men."

"It is not a pleasant topic," Thengel replied. "Even years after the Dark Lord's defeat, evil still breeds in Mordor. The land lies empty and open to any foul creature and that evil is now spilling out onto our borders."

"Yes. We have a great many refugees from Ithilien in this fief who remember the ambushes and raids on their homes," she told him. "When Hardang left, he expressed a hope that Captain Ecthelion would one day push the orcs out for good, maybe even allow families to return." Her gray eyes pinned him, wanting good news, but daring him to lie if there wasn't any. "Is there hope?"

Thengel felt troubled, weighing in his mind what he ought to tell this young woman with the sad, gray eyes. But then, something about her seemed steely enough to bear it, besides she had already lost enough that the truth would little matter.

"If they were Gondor's only trouble…" He combed his fingers through the back of his hair. "Even then, it looks bleak, my lady. These creatures multiply beyond reckoning, bent on harassing free lands. We cannot breach their strongholds. The captain's men merely provide a retention wall, if truth be told. Without Hardang's aid, in fact, we wouldn't have broken the siege on his den," Thengel admitted.

"Did he tell you about my house?" she asked quietly. "How did you know about Imloth Melui?"

Thengel shook his head. "No, that was Gladhon. My men and I wanted an escape from the city and entering the valley was a last minute decision when I saw the greenway. Hardang invited me to come to Arnach before he fell. I came to pay my respects to his household. We were going to bring a hind as a gift, but it ran ill."

"You are welcome. Hardang's word holds in this valley, dead or alive," she said gravely. "You may find it necessary to stay, for your companion's sake. You are welcome in my house, or you may leave him in our care if you wish to travel on to Arnach."

"I do not know what to do," he admitted as he stared down at his open palms in his lap. "Guthere would not like to be left behind."

Lady Morwen ran her fingers over the chair's polished wooden arm, thinking. "We are celebrating the blossoms soon. Hardang's brothers Halmir and Hundor will arrive at my house before the end of the week. You may pay your respect when they arrive, then travel with them to Arnach where Hardang's widow, Ferneth, has chosen to remain."

He inclined his head toward her. "Thank you, my lady. That would answer my dilemma."

Thengel then noticed his guard hovering on the edge of firelight. "Yes, Cenhelm?"

"Beg your pardon," he said with a respectful bow toward the lady. "The healer has finished." His eyes flicked between them, as if to ask what came next.

"Lady Morwen has offered to let us stay and care for Guthere here," Thengel told him.

"Yes." Lady Morwen rose. "I will show you where to move Guthere."

###

Cenhelm and Thengel carried Guthere with the scarecrow's help into one of the spare rooms down the corridor and laid him out on the bed placed in an alcove near another of the slim windows. Gildis followed with Guthere's boots and a bottle of some potion Nanneth left in the event the rider did wake. Cenhelm indicated his intention to stay the night in the room to watch over Guthere's progress, which Thengel echoed. Though visibly uncomfortable with this arrangement, Lady Morwen instructed Gildis to have comfortable chairs brought in.

"It seems like poor hospitality not to give you rooms of your own," she worried as the chairs came in. "My household can take turns siting up with Guthere while you have some much needed rest."

"I appreciate your offer and it's no reflection on your hospitality," Thengel replied. "But we try to take care of our own when we can."

"Will you join the household for supper, at least?" Lady Morwen asked as Beldir and the boy Gundor entered with richly upholstered chairs and stools from another room.

Thengel was about to reply that at least one of them should remain with their companion, but a snort from Gildis interrupted him.

"The dining table is unfit for use," she reminded them all. "Supper will be served in the kitchen tonight while the table receives a scouring." Lady Morwen looked surprised, but when she tried to raise an objection, Gildis cut her off too. "I've already spoken with Hareth. It's the best we can do under the circumstances."

"Very well," Lady Morwen answered. "Forgive us, Prince Thengel. We do not customarily serve princes dinner in the kitchen."

"We are to blame," he reminded her. "In fact, Cenhelm and I will make sure the table is put to rights." Cenhelm nodded.

Lady Morwen held up a hand. "No. You are my guests."

"I insist," he said stiffly.

"So do I," she replied. The imperious brow returned, and she moved in such a way as to block his path to the door. "Watch over your friend. A servant will fetch your supper when it is ready."

Lady Morwen left them alone with a sweep of skirts before Thengel could argue the point further. Her servants followed behind. He stared at the back of the door after Gildis closed it behind her mistress.

"She likes to have her own way," he reflected.

Cenhelm coughed.

Thengel turned to face his guard. "Speak, Cenhelm."

"With all due respect," Cenhelm said dryly, "The lady's no worse than you for stiff necks."

"Oh? _My_ neck's stiff, is it?" Thengel's eyelids dropped in a show of indifference. He liked Cenhelm, but the guard had an annoying habit of criticizing Thengel in the same manner as Uncle Oswin.

"You might have asked the lady to provide water to wash with instead of arguing over the table," Cenhelm pointed out. "I'm relieved Guthere survived two holes in the head so far, but I'm none too grateful I still have to smell him. It's hardly a May morning in here."

Thengel was about to retort when someone knocked on the door. He slewed toward the sound. "Yes?"

"Pardon, lords," a servant said through the wood. "Lady Morwen sends her compliments and says you're to have a bath."

Cenhelm hastily opened the door on a stream of servants carrying pitchers of hot and tepid water and a tub.

###

To be continued! Many thanks to Lia and Gythja for helpful critique!

Also, there's a character list attached to the last chapter in case there were any names that were unfamiliar. ;)


	5. Morwen

Chapter 5: Morwen

Whatever steel had kept Morwen upright through the tumult of the previous afternoon, it had finally deserted her when she entered the solitude of her own chamber. Weariness kept her from doing more than scrub the dirt from her hands and arms after changing out of her rumpled overdress. She draped the garment carefully over a chair under the window and threw herself into bed with less care.

When she awoke the next morning to birdsong, the weight of the day dropped into her lap like an overfed cat. Morwen clambered out of bed, untangling a foot wound in the blankets. She could tell from the quality of light filtering in through the window that she had overslept. How had she done that? Yesterday had been a full day of hard work, but she hadn't overslept since she was a girl.

Of course, she hadn't witnessed what amounted to a near scalping before. Life must keep little stomach-wrenching surprises in her pockets to keep poor mortals on their toes, Morwen thought, and life had certainly marked Morwen out for a full share. She had discussed the situation with Gildis the night before and they agreed the overseeing of the patient's health and that care of his master would fall on Gildis. Her upbringing, however, led Morwen to feel obliged to put in an appearance in the sick room, not to mention to satisfy her curiosity. Morwen wanted to know that nobody had died under her roof during the night, proving that spring had laid a curse on Lossarnach.

Spring ought to bring hope and renewal, but lately it seemed only to bring news of death. With an ache that forced her to stop and lean on her dressing table, Morwen wanted her father. Randir made responsibility look so simple. She had spent the year proudly filling his shoes, pretending to be fearless when her knees were knocking together. Now Lossemeren loomed overhead and a near corpse lay in the other room. When standing on her own counted most, she wasn't sure if she was equal to it.

Coincidence, she told herself. Only a coincidence that her father had died unexpectedly just after the blossom festival last year. Her cousin Hardang's death just a month prior had been completely unrelated. Rangers died in Ithilien all the time. And the prince's guard suffered from sheer bad luck, but thanks to Nanneth, would probably live.

Morwen concentrated on her breathing until the pang subsided. The shame of Bar-en-Ferin falling down around her ears and her love for the inconsequential little valley of wild roses forced Morwen to finish dressing. If she left at once, she wouldn't be too far behind Beldir, she thought as she clawed at her tangled hair with a comb from the table. It chafed thinking that she wasn't with them. Her overseer was a capable man, but the orchard was a matter of pride — well wasn't it? She had a lot to prove. Slowly, Morwen's resolve grew.

How many women her age had the complete run of their own households? A hands-off landlord, Hardang had left her alone, but with Lossemeren around the corner and her other cousins coming to stay, it was an opportunity to prove to that she could handle the responsibility.

But she also had a responsibility beyond the orchard and that was one of hospitality. Morwen sighed and jerked the comb through another tangle. In the end, she had to choose people before trees. She wouldn't have to linger, just put in an appearance to satisfy her need to know that the rider would pull through and to pay her respects to the prince.

Morwen twisted the long heap of black hair into a knot and pinned it up, remembering why she shouldn't wear it loose when she worked. The knot should do until she could work out the snarls later. Then she hastily threw on the surcoat over her wrinkled shift and retreated toward the door.

…

No one but Morwen stirred along the somber line of shut doors when she stepped into the corridor. The quiet felt odd and cast a lonesome air over that wing of the house. Gildis and one of her girls should have had the doors open, airing the rooms while they worked. But perhaps fear of disturbing the sick room kept them away.

Morwen bit her lip, trying to decide if she should avoid it too and get on with her morning duties, or take the chance of disturbing the prince and his men while being a good hostess. Hirwen would choose the orchard, Randir the guests. Although she knew she had a reputation for having her own way, in reality, these disparate ghosts often dictated Morwen's decisions. The only philosophy she could claim for herself was to fain certainty until it became a reality.

The bare walls and floor amplified the sound of another door latch. At first Morwen expecting Gildis, but Prince Thengel's grim guard, Cenhelm appeared on the threshold. He held one of Nanneth's vials in his hand. They blinked at one another awkwardly. Morwen because she had expected Gildis and Cenhelm because he hadn't recognized her as the lady of the house, at first.

Cenhelm stepped into the passage and gingerly closed the door behind him.

"Good morning, my lady," he said grimly.

"Good morning," she replied. "How has Guthere fared?"

She felt doubtful from the haggard lines on Cenhelm's face.

"He is awake."

It took a moment for Morwen to realize she had heard correctly, the news had been delivered with such a melancholy humor. She almost didn't know if she ought to feel as relieved as she did.

"When?"

"Not a quarter of an hour ago. Guthere spoke a few words, said he was thirsty," said Cenhelm. "The prince is with him now, so I meant to trouble your housekeeper. The old woman instructed us to mix the contents of this bottle with wine to provide relief against the pain."

"As I have not yet seen Gildis this morning, I will bring you the wine myself," Morwen promised.

Cenhelm thanked her before disappearing behind the door again.

In the hall, she retrieved a decanter of wine and one of the glasses stored inside the locked cupboard between the windows. She had just locked it again when Gildis crept up on her from behind.

"Oh! My lady, I thought you would be out with Beldir by now, but I'm glad I found you. There's this bundle that came for you yesterday."

Pulled in yet another direction this morning, Morwen felt a knot form between her shoulders, radiating tension and annoyance. She faced the housekeeper and tried not to show her irritation.

"Just a moment, Gildis," she replied, tucking the key into a pocket. "The injured rider woke up."

"And he asked for a whole bottle of wine?" Gildis asked incredulously.

"Of course not," Morwen replied sharply. "Nanneth said to mix it with a tincture she left."

Gildis shifted a bundle from under one arm. "Give me the wine. I'll bring it to them. Hareth has their breakfast ready anyhow." She held out the parcel toward Morwen. "I want you to take a look at this instead, so I don't have to keep carting it around with me. I think it may be important."

"Whatever it is, it can wait." Gildis looked mutinous, so Morwen held up a hand and said gently, "Leave it in my room, if you must. I will take the wine myself and you bring the breakfast. Now that they're awake, I should at least greet all my guests before I disappear up the slope. Besides, I want to see the rider's condition for myself."

Gildis's lips pushed in and out as if she were sampling different words to find which ones she wanted. Finally, she said, "I think you ought to leave it to me like we agreed last night. I've already ordered their breakfast. Besides, it isn't exactly seemly for you to be going in and out of another man's bedroom. It's the appearance, you know."

Morwen huffed. "Gildis, in my house, I can go into a sick man's room without it appearing to be anything other than what it is."

"There are certain rules about —"

"In my house, I make the rules," Morwen countered. It was a cheap shot, but really, who in this unimportant little valley would care what Morwen did?

"Very well." Gildis sniffed. "But about this package, Lady Morwen—"

"Please, Gildis, just wait a little longer," Morwen replied over her shoulder as she hastened to deliver the wine to Guthere's grim attendants.

…

Cenhelm met Morwen at the door and ushered her inside, into darkness. The door closed soundlessly behind her. Drapes covered the windows but for a small sliver that admitted enough light to keep anyone from tripping over the quilt rack in the middle of the room or the chairs spread throughout the space. She wondered at the rack, then realized one of them had probably used it to prop up their legs while they slept. She really needed to make sure they had proper places to sleep now that Guthere had awakened.

The sliver of light dissected the chair pushed against Guthere's bed. The prince leaned over the arm toward Guthere, with his back to Morwen. So engrossed in watching over the sick bed, Prince Thengel did not seem to know she had entered.

"It's so dark," she murmured to Cenhelm. It seemed wrong to disturb the darkness by speaking above a whisper.

"The light pains Guthere," Cenhelm explained. "But I will draw the curtains if you wish."

She touched his arm to stay him. "No, no. I won't linger long. Don't trouble him on my account."

Falling silent, Morwen listened to the conversation across the room. Prince Thengel spoke in a low, rhythmic tone in the language of his homeland. He sounded deadly serious and she thought she better not interrupt him. Guthere's voice, muffled by pain and a swollen face, responded with a word here and there.

Cenhelm cleared his throat. "My prince, the Lady Morwen is here."

Prince Thengel turned his attention away from his charge only briefly to see for himself. Morwen thought he looked like a man who had spent the night in a chair, hair rumpled and the deep lines on either side of his mouth and eyes seemed exaggerated with fatigue and worry. Morwen felt a jolt of guilt, despite the fact that both Prince Thengel and Cenhelm had refused beds of their own. If the prince had a stiff neck…it was because of his stiff neck.

He acknowledged her with a nod in her general direction, and began to speak Guthere again, this time in Westron. Beside the nod, it seemed the only real acknowledgement of her presence. She felt surprised and a little annoyed to find that the subject of the deadly serious conversation happened to be fishing! Guthere seemed disappointed in the prince's ideas of technique.

"Where is the vial?" Morwen whispered to Cenhelm, feeling she ought to get her part of the business over with.

Cenhelm fished the vial out of his pocket to show her. He indicated the table across the room where they could mix the potion with the wine. They experienced a moment's confusion, since Nanneth hadn't specified just how much wine to use. In the end, Cenhelm decided to err on the side of too much wine rather than too little.

Nanneth's tincture smelled like a molding compost heap and wet ashes. The wine added a sickly, sweet bouquet that made the bile rise in Morwen's throat. Prince Thengel accepted the wine glass from Cenhelm. He sniffed, grimaced, then held the glass as far away as possible. He said a very short word in Rohirric probably not meant for her ears.

Morwen approached the bed hesitantly, feeling like an outsider and yet curious to see the affects of the potion. The prince and his guard seemed to accept her presence at the bedside, or at least to tolerate it. When she saw Guthere up close, she flinched. Although the bandages covered the worst of his injuries, the poor man looked like a purple goblin from the swelling and bruising, exaggerated by shadows. Guthere's eyes were dark and tight with pain as they fixed on Prince Thengel. Then they widened and relaxed on Morwen's face when she stepped into the thin sunbeam.

"Good morning, Guthere," she murmured.

"This is Lady Morwen," Prince Thengel said in a low voice. "You are in her house."

To her surprise, Guthere smiled just long enough to erase the visage of pain. She found herself smiling back at him. Then Cenhelm carefully slid his arm beneath Guthere's pillow to bolster the man up so as not to choke on the mixture. The poor man looked like he didn't want anything to do with jostlings or potions.

"I'm warning you, Guthere, it smells like a troll's—" Prince Thengel started to say when Cenhelm cleared his throat. The prince glanced at Morwen, then back at Guthere, so she never did get to hear what exactly it smelled like. "Well, just hold your nose and think of Fengel King."

Morwen felt at a loss to understand what Prince Thengel meant by those trivial words without any context, but Cenhelm gave his prince a black look, sharp with disapproval. The look was wasted on the prince who concentrated on not drowning Guthere while he tipped the contents of the glass down the man's throat. Guthere coughed and sputtered, before the medicine began to work and his body relaxed. A few garbled words passed his lips, then he dozed off.

Now that Guthere had fallen asleep, Morwen had done her duty.

"Nanneth will be along again soon, I'm certain, but I'll send someone to tell her of Guthere's progress," Morwen said to excuse herself. "Your breakfast should be along soon."

"Thank you, my lady," Cenhelm said.

Prince Thengel passed the glass to Cenhelm, then rose from the chair. He pressed his hand into his back as if he had a pain there. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then Hareth let herself in with Ioneth to set out a small feast. The servant girl, being extremely shy of these visitors, slipped from the room as soon as the tray hit the table. Hareth rolled her eyes.

"Is there anything else we can get for you?" Morwen asked.

"No, this will do," the prince answered, really looking at her for the first time. He smiled, though it was a pale one. It made him look even more tired. "Thank you."

Sensing her dismissal, Morwen slipped out of the room with Hareth.

"They don't say much, do they?" the cook noted with a snort once they were in the hall.

Morwen had to agree. She would have felt almost unwanted if not for Cenhelm and there had been an undercurrent in the exchanges between the three men that she could not begin to guess at on less than twenty-four hour acquaintance.

"They've had a nasty time and little rest," Morwen by way of justification, as much for her benefit as for Hareth's.

The cook shrugged her broad, round shoulders. "Did Gildis find you?"

"Yes - oh dear!" Morwen suddenly exclaimed as the hall door burst open. "What's he doing here?"

Hareth's son Gundor, apprenticed to Beldir, ought to have been by the overseer's side on the orchard slope. Instead, he trotted toward Morwen with sweat dripping down his face. He bobbed at the waist like a crane bobbing for insects once he reached her.

"M-my lady, Beldir sent me to ask if you mean to come this morning. We're shorthanded on account of the miller's daughter eloping last night and now the miller's shut up all the children at home. And now Beldir says the world's going to end," the boy rattled off with barely a breath between.

It took moment for the meaning to settle. Then the blood drained from Morwen's face.

"World's end? Is that what Beldir really said?" Hareth snapped before Morwen could manage a word.

Gundor's eyes flicked back and forth between mother and mistress. "Well," he whinged, "he really said Lossemeren would be ruined and that's sort of the same thing."

Ruined. Gundor voiced her fear and Morwen felt her rib cage tighten as she tried to breathe. Then she felt the weight of Hareth's hand on her shoulder.

"Beldir is an old shroud-hanger and you know it," Hareth told her mistress with a stern tone. "It can't be as bad as all that. You can't help it if the entire valley decides to lock up their daughters for the rest of the day. Those silly girls will be back before you know it or I don't know their father. He'll send them flocking back as soon as he misses the few coins they earn doing next to nothing."

The cook had a point, but anxiety had already set in. As the miller had an enormous family, they were down a considerable part of their workforce. They could cope in a general way, but not in time for the feast. If they didn't clean up the orchard, everyone would notice and everyone would know that Morwen had failed to run Bar-en-Ferin and worse — to live up to Hirwen's reputation.

The world really would end if the orchard wasn't in order for the feast.

"So, what should I tell Beldir?" Gundor asked.

"Tell Beldir —" Morwen threw her hands up in the air; it would waste time thinking up a message. "Oh nevermind, I'll be right there."

Gundor gave his mother a look, perhaps wondering if he could get a chance at another meal before he left, but she only waved the empty tray at him. He took the hint and scarpered, bowling over Gildis on the way out.

….

Once recovered, and after a few choice words for Gundor, Gildis stalked toward Morwen with a look of determination on her face. Her arms locked around the parcel with a vice grip.

"Ah, Lady Morwen, your business with the Prince has concluded," she said with only a hint of acid in her tone. "Good."

Morwen swallowed back a groan. Stars! After the news that she had lost much needed help in the orchard, the last thing she wanted was another delay!

"What is it, Gildis?" she asked as calmly as she could.

Gildis's wiry frame seemed to bow beneath the weight of martyrdom. "Lady Morwen, I have waited for you half the morning. You might spare me one tiny moment."

Morwen sighed. "Oh, all right." If the world happened to be ending, what difference did it make if she joined Beldir or not?

"Excuse us, Hareth." Gildis gave the cook a look that suggested she wouldn't put up with a third party in this particular discussion.

Sniffing indignantly, Hareth sailed between them, back to her kitchen.

"This won't take a moment," Gildis reassured Morwen. "It's about this package."

Morwen took the bundle in her arms and turned it this way and that. "I was not expecting anything. When did it come?"

"It arrived yesterday morning. In all the excitement, I forgot to give it to you."

The paper had a crinkled look that led Morwen to think that it had been opened more than once. Nosy Gildis - and probably Hareth too! She sat down on a chair pushed against the wall while she untied the strings holding it together. The paper fell away in her lap, followed by a cascade of rich silk embroidered over in blooming roses, yards and yards of it. She forgot the orchard immediately.

"Gildis," she breathed as she fingered the needlework. Custom work from Minas Tirith, she didn't doubt. It would cost a small fortune. "What is this?"

"A gift, I imagine," Gildis answered.

"A gift?" A line appeared between Morwen's brows as she puzzled over the costly fabric. The queasy feeling she experienced during the surgery returned. "But where did it come from?"

Gildis pulled a card out of a pocket hidden within the folds of her skirts. "The carrier brought it up from Arnach."

"Arnach?" Morwen stared at the card feeling more puzzled than ever. The seal, a rose in bloom flanked by two buds. Her cousin's personal stamp. "Why would Halmir send this? He never brings me anything back from Minas Tirith when he visits."

Gildis pressed her lips into a paper-thin line when Morwen looked up at her for an answer. She knew that look well. The housekeeper reserved it for the times when she either didn't like the answer she had to give, or else she felt that Morwen acted purposefully obtuse. Morwen had a feeling that Gildis's sour expression related to both in this instance.

"Only Lord Halmir can say," Gildis answered with a cryptic thread in her voice. "What would you like me to do with it?"

Morwen stood and shuffled the fabric into Gildis's arms as if it was woven from stinging nettles. "I have no idea," she said glibly. "What use do I have for such fine cloth?"

"It is a conjecture, but the intent might be for a dress," Gildis pointed out, giving Morwen's faded surcoat an unsatisfied glance. "A proper one."

Morwen stared at her. "I can't trim branches in silk."

"No," Gildis agreed slowly. "You might find other uses for a lovely dress."

_Doubtful_, Morwen thought to herself. Her needs were practical and this fabric had frivolity sewn all over it. Leave it to Halmir to choose something beautiful and useless. She had a nice dress refitted from one of her mother's and it came out but once a year for Lossemeren or whenever she visited Cousin Angelimir and Adrahil in Minas Tirith. But those visits had grown rarer since Randir's death and Adrahil's marriage.

"He probably sent this in a fit of generosity precipitated by grief. He knew I favored Hardang," Morwen added thoughtfully. She knew her cousin never gave anything away for free, least of all to a little cousin he once left in an apple tree while he carried off the ladder.

"I can't accept this from Halmir. It is common knowledge that he's impulsive," she said with disgust. "I shouldn't wonder if he already regrets the loss of coin."

"If you say so, my lady," Gildis replied.

Morwen tossed the card into the empty fireplace. "Wrap the silk again.

"Shall I send a courier or would you like to return it to him at the feast?" Gildis asked.

Morwen hadn't thought of that. "Find someone to take it right away. The sooner the silk is back in his hands, the sooner he'll be relieved of whatever folly made him send it in the first place."

Gildis smiled unexpectedly.

"What?"

The smile disappeared. "Oh nothing. I just remembered that Hareth owes me a few silver pennies."

"I see," Morwen replied dryly, though she didn't. The cook and the housekeeper seemed to have a secret understanding that went back long before Morwen had been born. Servants' prerogative, she supposed, choosing not to inquire.

"Well, you had better go," said Gildis, suddenly urgent now that her own business with the mistress had been attended to. "It's almost noon!"

As if she needed the reminder!

…

Morwen felt the pressure on her chest release as she stepped out into the glorious sunshine that filtered through the trees shading the yard. At last, the free air! The stress of the sick room and her kinsman's odd behavior, even the weight of her responsibilities felt like nothing. Busy hands were the best cure for bad feelings and an anxious heart, Hirwen always said.

The air still smelled of wet dirt and freshly bathed grass and leaves. The yard seemed strangely quiet. All the dogs must have chased Beldir and the others into the orchard. She didn't mind them being underfoot. Later, when the fruit began to grow, the dogs frightened away the birds and other animals all hoping for an easy supper of cherries, apples, peaches and plums.

If she ran, she could make it to the upper slopes before everyone stopped for their midday meal. First, she would have to get out of view of the house, or rather, out of Gildis's line of sight.

The shingle crunched beneath Morwen's boots as she followed the long line of the house toward the back where a path lead through the birch grove, a shortcut that bypassed the wandering path of the greenway before it arrived at the orchard walls.

Morwen made a sharp turn around the corner of the house. Instead of an empty path, she came face to face with a the velvety muzzle of a horse, nearly receiving an unfortunate knock to the head. Woman and horse startled. Morwen fell against the side of the house while the horse sidled nervously by. The tall, dark rider reined in the creature before quickly dismounting.

Morwen pulled together what dignity she had after a scare like that while the rider apologized profusely. Tousled and dirty, he looked as though he had spent more than one night deep in the woods. Behind him, a man with a shaven head and an alarming set of tattoos down his neck waited with a line of horses. Both men looked haggard, with shoulders stooped by weariness. Their lips were grim lines.

Morwen recognized the filthy Gondorian as Gladhon, the son of a woodsman who lived in the valley. Gladhon passed the reins on to his companion. Touching a hand to his breast, Gladhon bowed.

"Begging your pardon, Lady Morwen. I did not mean to run you down," he said humbly.

"Hello, Gladhon," she replied dryly, rubbing the elbow she skinned on the wall.

Gladhon scratched the back of his neck where the dirty hair met skin. "Er, we've just returned with the Prince's horses."

"I see that," she replied. After all, at least one of them had nearly trampled her.

The tattooed rider, and the grimmest of the two, dismounted and murmured something to Gladhon. A thick accent obscured whatever he said.

"Thurstan wishes to be presented to you, my lady. He is another of Prince Thengel's Rohirric guard," said Gladhon. The rider bowed at the waist. "He wishes to know what news you have of our wounded companion and Prince Thengel."

"Your companion Guthere is well. The healer managed to - to…well, she patched him up." Morwen swallowed. "Guthere awoke this morning and even spoke a few words with Prince Thengel."

The men looked at one another. Gladhon laughed and clapped his companion on the back. The Rohirric guard managed a smile. "Well, that's a good word. We'd imagined the worst. I feel much lighter. Don't you, Thurstan? No, I suppose not."

"The horses need proper attention," Thurstan replied gravely in highly accented Westron.

"I believe Beldir outfitted the stable with everything you will need," Morwen told them. "I can show you the way."

"I remember where the stable is, my lady," Gladhon told her. "Don't trouble yourself. Only, the Prince should be told we have arrived with our quarry."

Morwen's heart sank beneath the duty of hospitality. "Oh course. I will tell him myself right now. If you'll follow me."

The orchard never felt so far away as Morwen retraced her steps across the yard. She didn't believe in fate. Yet, she couldn't help wondering if fate had conspired against her, whether she believed in it or not.

"Did you have a difficult time tracking the horses?" she asked politely as they followed behind her across the shingle toward the outbuildings.

"Sure," Gladhon replied. "Thurstan thought they were trying to gallop back to Rohan. I say they didn't care where they went, so long as they didn't have to spend another night in Teithalion's wormy lean-to."

Thurstan looked impassive at the mention of the artist.

"I thought you would have better sense than to stay the night in his hut," Morwen pointed out.

"Oh, I'd forgotten his eccentric ways. I haven't been this way in so long. You know, I was just telling Thurstan here about the years I used to work in the orchard as a boy," Gladhon mused. "There were some days in Ithilien where I wished I could go back to those simpler days, climbing trees and picking apples."

Morwen's agile mind saw light. She would have stopped dead in her tracks if not for the immediate danger of getting trampled again.

What if she had mistaken the omens? What if fate had just conspired in her favor? Albeit, in a roundabout way involving an unfortunate accident. What were errant miller's daughters to two or three grown men with nothing to do while their friend convalesced?

Morwen gave Gladhon a radiant smile. "Who says you can't?"

* * *

TBC

_Many thanks to Lia, Gythja, Thanwen, and Gwynnyd for helping to turn this train wreck of a chapter around. :) _


End file.
